


there's glitter on the floor after the party

by sumaru



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Olympics, Getting Together, Happy Birthday Kageyama Tobio, Kissing, M/M, Oikage Week, Post-Canon, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Content, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 06:07:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17115881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumaru/pseuds/sumaru
Summary: Kageyama wakes up the morning of the new year and Oikawa is still there.Or: after a bitter loss at the Summer Olympics in Paris, Oikawa and Kageyama find their way back to the city in winter, and learn that almost anything can bloom, with care, in time.Or: you can run all you want, but you can't outrun your gay.





	there's glitter on the floor after the party

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Vivi as a thank you for all their support and hard work. I don't usually write fluff, but I tried my best, so hopefully this is fluffy enough!

 

 

 

There’s glitter on Oikawa’s face.

There’s glitter in his hair. All over his hands? In his _mouth_. Oikawa groans and tries to spit it out, clumsily wiping at the cheerful scatter of it that still cling to his lips. It just smears an annoyingly festive rainbow across the back of his hand instead that’s— sticky? What _happened_ last night? Something akin to horror freezes him cold as he delicately sniffs his fingers, but it’s only the sickly sweetness of champagne that clings to his skin.

Memories are slowly fitting themselves back in place — the cloudburst of sparklers the French crew had brought with them to usher in the new year’s, for one, _Come, come, you’re so far from home, it’s not right that you two spend it alone, unless_ — and Oikawa isn’t sure what aches worse right now: his back from passing out on a hardwood floor; his head even in the dim light that lances mercilessly through the haze; the disheveled remnants of his dignity.

 _Oikawa-san_ , he thinks ruefully as he touches one glittery, sticky, sweet-smelling hand to his bangs that flop messily into his face, _is the actual complete opposite of glitter right now._

Sunrise is slow to fill the sitting room. He’s sharing accomodations with Kageyama, because of course he is, just the fact that they’re back in Paris already snarling such a pitiful knot in his stomach he doesn’t have the emotional capacity to handle much else. It's actually charming, this little apartment that the public relations coordinator rented for them: dark oak floors polished to a gleam, pale winter light weaving in and out of the potted herbs growing unruly and lush on the windowsill. Behind closed eyes, where everything smells hauntingly of mint and basil and something woodsy and clean he thinks is rosemary — where he can chase the world away for just one small, selfish moment — Oikawa can almost hear the way sneakers would have squeaked across these floorboards. He breathes in deep. Woodsy and clean. The knot tightens even worse in his chest.

The last time they were in Paris, it had been summer sun that flooded the streets; had beaten them down to the smallest parts of themselves as they crossed the floor of the grand pavillons. He had let his misery at their first and final match at the Olympics consume him then, had let the ugly feeling that’s been chasing him for his entire life burn such a hole right through that he had caught Kageyama in it. And Kageyama— Kageyama who had stayed by his side, had not said anything at all. His stubborn shoulders had just dropped, just a little. A fragile line that Oikawa had worked so tirelessly to mend, had broken, and for one uncontrollable moment, as the crowd decked out in red had thundered on despite, he had felt the ground collapse back to his younger self, when the whole world had been an impossible challenge. Sometimes Oikawa wonders if it might have been better if Kageyama had actually cried then.

“Happy new year, Tobio-chan!” Oikawa sits up abruptly, manages the semblance of cheerful and normal through the dark cloud spilling over into his mouth. There it is again: the memory of Kageyama letting Oikawa lean his crumpled, tear-stained face on him, instead. “Are you still alive or am I finally rid of you for good?”

A groan from somewhere above him on the couch. Something that sounds like _No_.

They’re here for two weeks filming promotional material for the upcoming Olympic Games in Los Angeles, something about the changing seasons and new beginnings, and it had all sounded very fun and good and not like running away from something at all when their manager had explained it to them, had even thrown in something deeply flattering about Oikawa’s looks and outrageous popularity as Team Japan’s newly-minted captain that would have made him indignant at being played so openly, had it not been _absolutely_ true. His face was practically a service to humanity; he had sponsorship contracts with both a toothpaste and gum company to prove it. Tobio-chan’s face, on the other hand—

The rising sun cups Kageyama’s face gently, _just so_ , tangles golden in his dark lashes and the wayward wisps of his bangs. Even foggy and rumpled in a threadbare Chuo University sweatshirt that Oikawa is sure is his, _his,_ thoughts stuttering to a complete stop, banked on the heat that flares in his stomach hot and knotted at the very idea of Tobio nestled so deep in something _his_ — there’s something shy and lovely in the way sleep had softened Kageyama’s mouth. It isn’t quite a smile, just a thing that flits unsure across his mouth, a little lost. _Like he’s surprised I’m still here._ Oh, so after pressing him in everything else, _now_ is when Tobio-chan defers to him to take the lead. Oikawa feels like he should be annoyed, but somewhere in the back of the abysmal headache he feels forming, the totality of both the good and the bad choices he made yesterday, he wonders what if he added just one more. There’s a thin wool blanket draped over Kageyama, and Oikawa, distantly, remembers how carefully, _carefully_ , in that slow and deliberate way only someone extremely drunk can move, had tucked it under Kageyama’s bare legs.

It’s been a while since Kageyama had to look up to Oikawa in any or all things; Oikawa wonders if this is what it felt like. But spite had never curdled in Kageyama, even at his worse there’s always been a shine to him; and it had taken Oikawa so long to weather it, to learn how to move on despite. The blanket has slipped off Kageyama’s shoulders as he leans over — powerful shoulders, strong from the long dedicated hours on the court beside him, shoulders built up in service to his team, _his captain_ — and Oikawa knows he’s truly setting all the traps himself and has nobody else to blame. He knows he’s staring. He doesn’t think he can stop.

“Oikawa-san?” Quiet. Brows drawn. Oikawa can practically watch the process of Kageyama slowly piecing together last night, small twitches crinkling his mouth, and he wants to laugh hopelessly at how everything has always been there, right out in the open. How can something so stupid be so cute. It’s annoying. It’s _delightful_. 

Paris in the winter is dusted with sugarfine snow, twinkling with innumerable lights. It softens the edges, dulls the clean path that the river cuts through the city; Oikawa feels all his resolutions dull with it, too, watching the line of Kageyama’s wavering not-smile, rainbow glitter freckling his chapped lower lip, the corner of his mouth, a bite of glitter highlighting the tempting curve of his jaw. The sunrise moves through Kageyama’s hair, spills warm and golden into the dip of his neck. _He has such an ugly haircut,_ Oikawa thinks in despair. _We’ve come such a long way and his hair is just so ugly._ But everything about Kageyama looks so warm, so golden, and Oikawa wants to cup his face, _just so_ , too. 

“Last night you did— said something about—” Kageyama is so utterly inept at this and it shows all over him, embarrassment spreading flush and pink down the column of his throat. His hands by his side are clenched tight in the blanket, like he could squeeze his words straight from the threads that Oikawa had laid down there. It’s so hopelessly cute, this too, that Oikawa almost feels like his life should be slowing down, so he can relive every terrible choice he has made that has brought him here.

“—Is it okay, Oikawa-san? Is this okay?”

“Don’t ask for permission for something you’re going to do anyway!”

Kageyama’s hands are just as sticky as his. And he smells— woodsy, clean. So it had been him, just him, and his fingertips are asking so hesitantly and gently, mapping Oikawa’s face like this is an impossible morning full of possible things, that Oikawa can’t run from it anymore. Behind closed eyes, selfish and wanting and so terribly, wonderfully, delightfully warm, Kageyama’s lips are clumsy and chaste against his, and Oikawa sighs into his mouth as he climbs into his lap to chase after. The couch isn’t all that big and they’re both much too tall for this, but Kageyama’s thighs brace him, pins his chest against Kageyama’s heartbeat running wild and fast. Kageyama tastes like awful morning breath; Kageyama tastes like the shining morning of a new year.

Maybe it’s that they’re so far from home. Maybe it’s just him. Maybe this is where he was always going to end up at the end of a chase that’s been going on for almost half their lives now. But something about the way Kageyama keeps touching him so gently, thumbing carefully across his cheekbones even as he moans, so small and wet and needy into Oikawa’s mouth, that thrills heat all the way down Oikawa’s spine — he knows he needs to shake Kageyama off.

“To—Tobio-chan!” He puts both hands on Kageyama’s chest, tugging away from those achingly clumsy touches. He tries not to think about how he’s strung too tight, completely electrified, shivering as Kageyama’s eyes snap open to focus fully on him, only him, like he’s the match point to be made. Even in the morning light, the blue of Kageyama’s eyes is midnight; deepens at the sound of his name that whines from Oikawa’s lips despite himself. Oikawa swallows around the way his stomach twists when he sees himself in those eyes, flushed and hot and taken completely apart to pieces.

“Ugh, it’s so stuffy in here and I’m getting all sweaty and gross! Come on, we’re going for a run!”

It’s inelegant and obvious and of course perfect — Kageyama absolutely lights up, and Oikawa wonders where along the way they had become so easy together.

 

*

 

 

The city is only just waking up, but without any markets or shops open, the cobblestone streets still sleep under an inviting layer of fresh snow, ready to be kicked up underfoot. But it’s the sight of the steep paths threading their way through the hilly park that captures the entirety of Kageyama’s attention, eyes turned toward them so eagerly, Oikawa can hear how loudly his thoughts are churning about the challenge in them.

It’s not the first time they jog through this park. When they had first gotten to Paris, Kageyama had said something about how _inefficient_ it was, frowning at the clusters of tourists who kept walking across their path; Oikawa had just snickered at him then, fluttering his fingers at the French girls who stumbled over the _Konnichiwa!_ when Oikawa had sang a _Bonjour mes chères!_ at them. But something about the way the stately green firs had loomed over them, the bridges that rose like royalty, the fairy tale gazebo that looked down on them, dared them to trespass — it had all been a little much for two boys who still went home to the simple green hills of Miyagi every holiday, and they had not returned since.

In the winter though, so early, there’s nothing but the hush of snow and the puffs of their cold breath that hangs in the air; the in-and-out of their breathing, in rhythm; the crunch of their sneakers over the path, that Oikawa can already feel snow clinging to, a wet and chilly mess to deal with afterward.

But it feels good, like this, all of it familiar even on the other side of the world; a slight sting in his lungs from the winter air, a good pain burning away all the doubt in his veins. Neither of them were ever made to sit still, and stride for stride with Kageyama out here, back in the city where the whole world had watched them break under the pressure, it feels like all Oikawa has to do is to keep on running, to reach summer again.

They’re taking a slope at top speed and Oikawa’s legs are screaming, and he feels like shouting, too, bad champagne decisions and hangovers and overwhelming stupid geniuses that can’t hold their drink — all walls that he will climb through sheer defiance. 

He remembers how warm Kageyama’s hands were when he fumbled against the sweatshirt, when Oikawa had poked him in the ribs, forced him to sleep off on the couch his one single pitiful glass of champagne. He remembers the way he had said, to the French crew, the night before as they had worked their way through the sixth bottle of wine, how proud he was of his _Vice-Captain Tobio-chan Kageyama_ , how hard-working, how exasperatingly good. How hopeless cute, all covered in glitter. And all of it had been true.

Oikawa remembers something else, then, stashed in the inside pocket of his jacket.

“ _Stamina monster Tobio-chan Kageyama!_ ” He watches in delight as Kageyama’s brow creases at his mangled English; but Kageyama doesn’t stop running. The peak is right there, and Kageyama means to take it, and Oikawa definitely means to take it before him. “Catch!”

That thing in him that’ll always want to push every one of Kageyama’s buttons, makes him throw the little paper bag high and wide, and for one wild moment, Oikawa bets against himself, breath caught in his mouth as Kageyama jumps: will he actually catch it, or will he instinctively set it like a volleyball. But it’s deftly plucked from its trajectory with long, sure fingers, and Oikawa’s breath drops deep into his lungs, swallowed down whole. There’s never been anything awkward about Kageyama in the air.

“Oh,” Kageyama says quietly while Oikawa stands still, and stares, and he’s reminded again, exhilarated, irritated, of how relentless Kageyama is, how every year he only grows better and more sure of himself. “Thank you, Oikawa-san.”

The mittens are bright red, matched to their team jerseys, but little pinpricks of gold dot them — tiny sparkly pom-poms, threaded through, childish and somehow entirely fitting to the clench of Kageyama’s mouth as it fights against the smile that’s threatening to ruin the line of it, and all of that feeling spills brilliant and blue into his eyes instead. There’s no wind today, but somehow Oikawa feels lifted, taller than the tall trees they’re standing under as Kageyama bites white teeth into his bottom lip, huffs the smallest laugh as he slips the mittens on, carefully putting away his old threadbare ones in the bag. This new pair is hilariously woolly and fluffy, ridiculous on this man who has grown so tall and broad-shouldered while Oikawa was watching, and also trying not to watch at all.

It feels like all that time suddenly pours in now, on this absolutely still day where there isn’t even a snow shadow on the ground, where everything is like a clear path to their future, picked out by this elegant footpath that they just need to run down to meet. On the other side of the world, it seems almost impossible that the space between them used to be overgrown with thorns; but from this dark patch, and everything in them that keeps them pushing forward, the attentive slope of Kageyama’s shoulder is like a promise, one that says: almost anything can bloom, with care, in time.

“But what is this for?” Oh, that blank face. That bitten lip.

“Happy birthday, Tobio,” Oikawa smiles, and he knows he’s a lost cause when he keeps to himself, _Don’t you ever change._

 

 

*

 

 

Kageyama kisses him like he’s facing him on the court.

His hands command so much power, and Oikawa _knows_ , he’s been on the other side of the net from him, has come up so many times against the intensity that seems to pour from Kageyama when he locks onto an opponent. Had grappled it with his own. Those same hands are pressing him down now, they’re gripping his shoulders bruisingly tight as Kageyama grinds against him, cock hard and leaking all over Oikawa’s running shorts, both of them too desperate to do anything more than pull their clothes aside.

Kageyama is all soft skin flushed pink with embarrassment, but every inch of him is so demanding — Oikawa is absolutely torn between making a comment about Kageyama being a selfish king who should be thanking his very handsome and willing throne, and the risk of Kageyama walking off with a scowl and leaving Oikawa half-hard on the couch. They’re still a little breathless from their run back, and all it had taken was Kageyama to look aside with a muttered _Are you going to finish what you started, Oikawa-san?_ to land him in Oikawa’s lap, squirming so much Oikawa thinks if he doesn’t stop moving for one whole damn second, he’s going to make a mess right then and there. 

But Kageyama is so hot. He’s burning up and he can’t seem to keep his hands still: his fingers are tangling in Oikawa’s hair, moving down the back of his neck, slipping warm under his t-shirt to palm all over Oikawa’s chest, greedy for everything, but all Oikawa wants to do is drink him up, kiss his stupid pleading mouth until he comes just from the desperation of it.

“Oikawa-san, please—”

Oikawa thinks faintly that he needs to deal, at some point a little later, with the way he just whined so pathetically into Kageyama’s mouth. 

“Hm, ask again, Tobio.”

“Can you—”

So many buttons to push, with Kageyama. _So cute._ He doesn’t even let him finish, just wraps a hand tight around Kageyama’s cock and lets him fuck desperately into it, already leaking so wet into Oikawa’s hand it’s effortless. The arch of Kageyama’s neck thrown back is so lewd like this, how guilelessly on display he is for Oikawa that he feels almost affronted by it, kissing the column of his throat, tonguing the warm skin until all he hears from Kageyama is small needy noises.

Oikawa can’t help it. He just can’t. Desperation just looks so good on Kageyama.

“This is all Oikawa-san is good for, isn’t he?” He slows his hand; nips Kageyama’s collarbone like a reprimand. 

The frustrated whine Kageyama makes is almost worth it, fingers clawing down Oikawa’s arms so hard he knows the scratches will make Kageyama blush bright red later, and Oikawa can’t wait to wear short sleeves in winter just to watch him agonise between embarrassment and arousal.

“No, you've always been—” 

Kageyama is breathing so hard it’s like he’s crying, voice pitched to breaking, and Oikawa thinks he can’t be any harder than he is right now. All it takes is a feather touch and Kageyama comes all over his hands, burying his face in Oikawa’s neck, whispering the most embarrassing things that Oikawa knows he’ll remember at the worst moments later on; during practice, talking to the coach, setting for Kageyama by his side.

 

 

*

 

 

“You didn’t let me finish.”

Oikawa raises a brow at the scowl sitting on Kageyama’s face. “I remember very much letting you finish.”

Noon paints itself sunny and pleasant across the walls of the apartment. Oikawa will miss this place. They made such a mess here, together; but they fixed so many things, too.

“No, I wanted to say,” Kageyama pauses, face red all over again as he picks up an empty wine glass that had somehow got kicked under the couch. He straightens up; stares intently at the wall behind Oikawa’s head. “I wanted to say that, you’re what I wanted. Everything I wanted, before. And when we came here, and we lost, I realised you were just—”

Behind closed eyes, Oikawa can smell mint and basil and Kageyama, woodsy and clean, and something that might just be the achingly evergreen smell of winter, winding through everything, clean and new and open like a year where anything and everything is possible.

“—you were just you. And things change for the better, but please don’t change, Oikawa-san.”

 _This is entirely unbearable_ , Oikawa thinks as he kisses Kageyama. Right on the mouth, on the scrunch of his nose where the frown just never quite leaves, and for some reason there is still some of that damn glitter. 

_He’s entirely unbearable,_ and Oikawa thinks he can’t wait to see what summer brings for them, together.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [You and me, from the night before.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JEmcVL1WJgk)
> 
> This was a little rushed and posted from mobile so I'm sorry if it's kinda everywhere. But it's also basically a weepy emotional letter of recommendation to one of the best boys ever and I'm not ashamed!!
> 
> Happy Birthday, Kageyama!


End file.
